Friday 24 February 2017

Where Reality Begins

And so I've reached the last page of yet another book.

I open my eyes and I reach for it, lying on the floor, having been set aside last night. I flip, fine paper, neat type. Throughout the day, it intoxicates my senses. When I'm tired, I fall back asleep. The process repeats itself until eventually, the narration no longer continues, leaving only faint wishes lingering on the edge of the yellowed paper. The lives I have been following, like smoke dancing above the surface of the print, have coalesced into a fleeting mist of dreams. Once the cover is shut and it takes its proper place back on the shelf, all that becomes of their lives are memories long forgotten, never experienced.

Still, I refuse to plant my feet on the earth where I am unable to keep on dreaming.

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